Fruit Loops
by Ms.Informed13
Summary: The way Quinn talks is like poetry, soft and swelling, cresting and breaking, and it's no wonder to Rachel how people would find this beautiful. Quinn drags a tired hand through her hair, ruffling the short chop. Her fingers are long and graceful and Rachel finds herself hoping that at one point Quinn Fabray learned to play the piano. AU FABERRY ONE SHOT
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- Original title was 'Fuck Beautiful' but fan fiction doesn't like swear words in titles. So the new title is inspired from this quote-**

 **"That's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people want to be around someone because they're pretty. It's like picking your breakfeast cereals based on color instead of taste."**  
 **― John Green, Paper Towns**

 **Just a Faberry AU one shot, because the world needs more one shots. Rating is from swear words**

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Quinn Fabray isn't drunk. Quinn isn't drunk but she desperately wants to be as her publicist's girlfriend's cousin who works for some big name university on the East Coast praises the raw beauty of her new poetry collection.

But this is her party and it's bohemian and supposed to be a good publicity move because her new work has only been out for a couple of weeks but the sales have already surpassed what her first book brought in after being at market for six months.

Quinn smiles and pulls at the skirt of her dress absently, it's not comfortable, and she doesn't like the color but she had bought it because her girlfriend had said it looked sexy.

Ex- girlfriend.

Cheating bitch of an ex-girlfriend who Quinn had walked in on two days ago.

Just the thought of the woman she had been with for nearly two years makes Quinn's blood boil. She nods politely at whatever James- or was it Jake- said about his favorite poem from her publication and excuses herself ungracefully from the conversation.

She takes a sweeping glance of the party, it's rough and it's cramped because Carla- her publicist- had made the last minute decision to move it to the roof of Quinn's own apartment building. The blonde had been moping about feeling sorry for herself and pissed at her ex and had let slip that she desperately didn't want to have the party. Carla decided to bring the party to her.

Quinn sneaks along the edge of the party to the makeshift bar area (not an actual bar with a bartender, but a 'rustic' table with booze laid out like a college party because it was fitting with the small intimate feel of the theme Carla had said). Quinn scoffs to herself, intimate her ass, the party was cramped and uncomfortable and if she had to listen to one more person talk about her writing she would jump.

She had already talked to all the important people, the man from the publishing company who she had worked closely with, her editor, and Carla. Quinn sees no reason to stay so she grabs a half empty bottle of Absolut and inconspicuously steps over the edge of the roof onto the fire escape.

Her apartment was only 3 floors down from the roof, but she knew better than to stray too far from the party should Carla come looking for her. She settles on the steps just above the landing for the top floor and takes a sip from the bottle before casting a look around at the city.

It's late and New York is alive with lights and noise.

There's some shouting from the street below that draws Quinn's attention. She pokes her head over the rail to see two taxis parked haphazardly, the drivers out on the street yelling at eachother.

"What the fuck?"

Quinn's head snaps around at the question to see a petite brunette leaning out the window of the top floor apartment leading to the fire escape.

"There's a taxi driver brawl down there." Quinn says flatly, pretending that it's totally normal to have a stranger sitting on the fire escape outside your window.

The brunette rakes a glance up and down Quinn, her eyes landing on the bottle of vodka, and her head shaking subtly.

"I'm not a drunk, if that's what you're thinking." Quinn defends, "I'm not even drunk now. I'm hiding."

"From what?"

Quinn nods her head up at the roof where the music and chatter is audible, "Party." The brunette smiles just the slightest bit and Quinn decides to push her luck, "I could use a drinking partner."

The woman regards Quinn, "I don't even know who you are."

That Quinn could fix, she smiles broadly and shakes her hair out of her face, "I'm Quinn Fabray. I live in apartment 6C, and I promise I'm not a serial killer."

The brunette stared Quinn down for a moment longer before seemingly throwing caution to the winds and climbing out her window to sit beside her on the step.

"And who are you?" Quinn asks.

The brunette smiles, "Rachel Berry. I live in 9F and I'm also not a serial killer."

Quinn laughs, "Nice to make your acquaintance Ms. Berry." She hands over the bottle and watches shamelessly when Rachel raises it to her lips and takes a sip.

"So, Quinn." She begins when she swallows, "Do you often drink outside of strangers' windows in the middle of the night?"

"No." Quinn replies, "Do you often join them?"

"No."

They sit in amicable silence for a while before Rachel breaks it, "Why are you hiding from the party?"

"Truthfully, I didn't care much for the topic of conversation."

Rachel raises an interested eyebrow, "And what was that?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Berry."

The brunette just shrugs.

"I'm a writer, poetry mainly and shorts. It's a party for my new book."

"Unkind critics?"

"No, they're all glowing reviews so far."

Rachel sends her a small smile, "Then what's the problem."

Quinn takes another sip, wincing as the alcohol burns down her throat, "I'm always the person who get's left behind. You know in movies where the main actor is with this woman who isn't right for him that the whole audience is rooting against and then the lead actress comes in, does some indignant yelling and then storms out. Then the man follows her apologizing, the scene goes black and suddenly it's five years later and they have 2.5 kids and a house in the suburbs."

Rachel is watching the shadows pass across Quinn's face while she talks, "I'm the woman the actor leaves when he chases his future wife. I'm the fucking human leftovers. At least that's what I wrote that stupid book on the fumes of, I poured my heartbreak and my resentment and every shit feeling I had for the last two years into a fucking manuscript and all those buttoned up flannel, thick framed glasses, craft beer, long beard, hipsters call it beautiful."

The way Quinn talks is like poetry, soft and swelling, cresting and breaking, and it's no wonder to Rachel how people would find this beautiful.

Quinn drags a tired hand through her hair, ruffling the short chop. Her fingers are long and graceful and Rachel finds herself hoping that at one point Quinn Fabray learned to play the piano. She's backlit by the city and the harsh night lights cast a halo around her head.

"The movies don't ever tell you what happens to that woman so let me clue you in. She goes home, gets drunk, and does it all over again. She stupidly believes that next time she'll be the one he actually wants, she believes that she can find someone to love, she fucking tries to believe. But the audience always needs someone to root against. I'm fucking tired of believing."

The blonde sighs out the last few words and Rachel hears real heartbreak in her words, "Now after the buzz around this book quiets down I'll do it all over again. And there will be some new batch of literary saps telling me how my mangled heart is 'beautiful.'"

Rachel listens to this all before rendering her judgement, "Boo fucking hoo."

"Excuse me?" Quinn asks, her head snapping to the brunette beside her.

"You heard me." Rachel says with a gentle smile, "You're at least a relatively successful writer with a stable platform and you're out here drinking in the middle of the night because the hipsters think that your writing is beautiful. You're running away from your own party because the reviews are too good."

Rachel pauses and takes a sip from the bottle, handing it back to Quinn, "I'm a high school music teacher in a failing inner city school who's arts budget is shrinking by the day. I teach band, choir, orchestra, and theatre because over half the student body scores below 16 on the ACT and the school board can't justify more than one arts teacher when those scores keep dropping." She looks clearly at Quinn, "You have a platform, don't waste it being the poor tortured artist whose fans don't understand her."

Quinn stares sidelong at Rachel for a long moment it's been awhile since anyone but her high school friend Santana called her out like this. She doesn't know why but it feels good, like Rachel is stripping away her defenses, like she really sees Quinn. A slow smile cracks across her face, "I like you, Berry. We should do this more often."

Rachel rolls her eyes, "Don't make a habit of drinking outside my window."

"Maybe next time we could do this on the other side of the glass."

Rachel waits a moment, appraising Quinn, "Maybe."

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 **A/N- Lemme know what you thought, and also your favorite breakfast cereal. Mine is frosted flakes- but only if you eat them quick enough that they don't get soggy.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- Alright so I don't do this, but I'm doing this. By popular demand I'm expanding this story. In order to do this I'm actually publishing a new story, it's going to be called 'Fruit Loops- Remix' and is going to be** **essentially a prequel to this story. It is up now and you can find it in my stories.**

 **Thank you for all of the reviews and favorites and reading which prompted this addition.**

 **Also some of you have weird favorite cereals- like** **Raisin Bran. Who under the age of sixty actually _likes_ Raisin Bran? But thank you for entertaining me and playing along with my question!**


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